


Decommissioned

by Merytsetesh



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Band Fic, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky joins a punk band, M/M, Male Character of Color, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Punk, Punk Bucky Barnes, This Is NOT An AU, music as therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-03-16 05:50:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3476861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merytsetesh/pseuds/Merytsetesh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier's new mission is to find himself. He finds punk rock instead.</p><p>Or:</p><p>The one where Bucky is adopted by a band who help him rediscover his love of Coca Cola, playing the piano, and short blond punks (although this one has a mohawk). Along the way he accidentally becomes a rock star.</p><p>Or:</p><p>Steve finds a new favorite band.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [consultingstarkofmischief](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingstarkofmischief/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Invaders Must Die](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1585106) by [noncorporealform](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noncorporealform/pseuds/noncorporealform). 



“How about him?”

 

Zipping his bass drum back into its hard case, Shawn glanced up to see where his bandmate and best friend Derrick was pointing. Their band Brain Violence had just finished their set and were packing up their instruments to make room for the next band about to perform.

 

“He's your type, right? Tall, dark, and scruffy?” Derrick gestured to the back corner where a man sat alone at a table. He was facing the stage, but the popped collar of his jacket and lanky hair obscured his face except for a strong jaw and dimpled chin covered in five day stubble. He was hunched over his seat, but it didn't hide the breadth of his shoulders or his long legs hooked onto the footrest of the barstool. Yeah, definitely his type. “That's maybe a little too scruffy for me,” Shawn said instead.

 

“Don't give me that crap. Look at him, sitting over there all alone with his 90s grunge, sad hobo hooker self. Go buy him a drink.”

 

Shawn rolled his eyes and hoisted up his drum. “God, you're like my mom, always trying to hook me up with nice girls from church.”

 

“You don't need nice, you need bad, and he looks plenty bad.”

 

“In that case, you can carry this out to the bus.” He shoved the bulky case into Derrick's chest, who grabbed it reflexively, and hopped off the stage.

 

“I _meant_ chat him up when we were _done_ , but sure, yeah, go get some. I'll just carry your heavy ass drum down these stairs,” said Derrick, tossing his dreadlocks over his shoulder with a dramatic huff. Shawn gave him the finger.

 

He got a beer at the bar before heading over so he'd look less desperate and have something to do with his hands. The man at the table looked up from under his hair when Shawn approached and damn, he was unfairly hot. The bags under his eyes and greasy hair didn't do him any favors, but under his stubble he had a jawline like a fashion model. Shawn flashed him a smile.

 

“Enjoying the show?”

 

He gave Shawn a calculating stare and didn't say anything for so long Shawn thought he wasn't going to respond. Feeling like a lower life form being examined under a microscope, Shawn was about to make an awkward getaway when the man finally spoke.

 

“...You were on the stage earlier.” His voice was low, barely audible over the next band warming up, so Shawn had to lean in to hear. Up close he could smell the tang of his sweat and the wet wool of his jacket still damp from the rainstorm outside.

 

“Yeah, I'm the drummer for Brain Violence, but we're done playing for the night. What did you think?”

 

“It was loud. And angry.”

 

“If it wasn't it wouldn't be punk! From your raving review I'm guessing it's not your thing?”

 

The man licked his lips and Shawn's gaze was automatically drawn to them. “Anger can be useful.”

 

“Very true. I can't speak for anyone else, but I bet everyone in the scene has some anger issues to work through. Music is a way to vent, to get out all the negative that's inside you, like draining an infection. Sometimes beating the hell out of some drums is more of a release than sex.” Crap, did he bring up sex too soon? He was out of practice flirting, not that he'd ever been that good to begin with. Drummers weren't usually the ones that got the groupies. But his prospective hook up didn't seem put off. In fact he seemed more interested than before, though not precisely _interested_ interested. Close enough, he decided, and held out his hand. “I'm Shawn.”

 

“James.”

 

It took a while, but slowly James started to open up. Shawn didn't want to force his company on anyone, but James didn't seem disinterested, just socially inept. He held himself wound as tight as a spring, his arms crossed over his chest as if afraid to take up too much space, but he leaned towards Shawn like a flower seeking sunlight. Eventually Shawn did buy him that drink, though it was just a coke since James didn't drink. He sipped it with a small, pleased smile, the first Shawn managed to coax out of him. They talked about nothing, inconsequential things like the bad weather that had chased James into the bar in the first place, how Shawn got into music, and how James used to dance, but hadn't in a long time. When he laughed the worried furrow in his brow disappeared and his eyes crinkled pleasantly.

 

Half way through a story about the time Shawn was drumming with a different band at Ozzfest years ago and ended up putting out a fire started by Marilyn Manson's bassist with a water gun, the audience suddenly started cheering and he realized the show was over. He had been talking to James for almost two hours. Though he was a man of few words, James was a good listener with an appreciation for Shawn's crazy band stories and tipsy musings on philosophy. Time to see if that appreciation expended to other activities.

 

“Hey, there's an after party back at the hotel. You're welcome to come.”

 

James shifted in his seat. “I shouldn't.”

 

“Hey, it's fine if you don't feel like it. It's nothing special really, just a few of the bands, some roadies, and a handful of fans. Very exclusive, invitation only you know.” He winked. “Honestly it's not that wild a party, we'll probably hook up the X-Box to play some games and eat a metric ton of pizza and takeout before hitting the bunks.” James looked like he could use a good meal and Shawn wasn't above using that to lure him over, though didn't expect anything in return. Spending time with someone as hot as James was its own reward. If sexy times happened, well, that was a bonus. That, and years of his Italian mother force feeding his skinny friends whenever they came over had somehow transferred the instinct to him. “I can tell you how I kept from burning down the stage over a slice of pepperoni.”

 

After a moment of consideration James agreed. Outside the the rain was still coming down in buckets, so they ran to the where the bus was idling at the curb, already loaded with their equipment. Brain, their lead singer, was waiting on the stairs and tapping his converse shoe impatiently.

 

“C'mon, everyone's already here. Get your new boyfriend onboard and let's go, I'm starving.”

 

Inside James blinked owlishly around the bus, taking in the plush bench seating, flatscreen TV, and polished wood fixtures. People were always surprised how nice the bus was, though it looked bigger on the outside, like some kind of lame reverse TARDIS. Tonight it looked smaller than usual with the band plus the after party guests.

 

“Pretty swanky, huh?” Shawn grinned at James. “It isn't ours, the label just let us use it since Punk You Buddy is such a big tour. Biggest we've ever been on. We normally kick around in my old truck and Derrick's dead grandpa mobile.”

 

“My car is awesome and you know it, doesn't matter if the paint looks like puke and it used to be my grandpa's. It's newer than yours and paid for,” said Derrick where he was sprawled out on the couch with girls on each arm: Morgan and Tiffany, two of their regular groupies who were more friends than fans at this point. Across from them was the band bassist Alex, a petite wisp of a girl with a constellation of facial piercings and a blonde mohawk that brought her height to a grand total of five feet six inches.

 

“James, this is Morgan and Tiffany, the waste of space between them is Derrick. The lovely and ladylike example of womanhood is Alex, and the dick standing in our way in the middle of the aisle is Brain. Guys, this is James.”

  
James frowned, and was is wrong of Shawn to think it looked cute? Like a confused kitten. “Brain? Is that a call sign?”

 

“Mom sure as hell didn't name me Brain. Funny story: originally I was a solo act, just me and a guitar, and my stage name was _Brian_ Violence. After I got the band together we were doing our first big gig when the name got misspelled on the posters.” He shrugged. “It caught on, so now we're Brain Violence!”

 

Introductions made, they settled in for the short ride to the hotel. James didn't say much, but absorbed the casual conversation around him with a curious tilt of his head. At the hotel they piled out and got lost on the way to their rooms because Derrick insisted the room numbers went the other direction.

 

In the bright florescent light of the hotel James looked rougher than Shawn had expected. The bags under his eyes looks like twin bruises and his face was thin, like he's lost too much weight too fast. His clothes were second hand, except for his boots, which looked military though that didn't mean much at a punk show. Still, it got Shawn thinking.

 

The after party was unofficially being hosted by The Scurvy Dogs, another band on the tour, in a room three doors down from the two reserved for Brain Violence. It was a larger room with a living area and kitchenette, so everyone congregated there. Somebody had set up a Wii U on the TV and there were stacks of pizza boxes and Chinese take out on the bar counter. Mouth watering from the smells, he headed straight for the food and piled some fired rice and dumplings onto a paper plate.

 

“Hey James, pizza or Chinese? We got fried rice, lo mien, dumplings, looks like some sweet and sour chicken over there...” Not hearing an answer, he looked up.

 

Years ago before his parents divorced, Shawn's dad had taken him camping on his cousin's property in upstate New York. One night while cooking hotdogs over the campfire, a pair of eyes glittered at them from beyond the ring of firelight. At first Shawn had thought it was a coyote, which had been getting more common in the area, but it was too tall. His dad scared off the wolf, which didn't take much since they were naturally shy animals. This one must have been starving to get so close to humans, but not desperate enough to lunge for the open package of sausages next to them.

 

Fifteen years and near four hundred miles away, Shawn looked at the man he'd picked up from the club, whose eyes were wide with undisguised hunger but didn't make a move towards any of the food on the counter, and thought of that wolf.

 

Sighing, he set down his plate. “Hey, it's okay,” he said gently in the same reassuring voice he used on stray animals. They were the only people in the kitchenette and the sounds of Mario Kart kept their conversation from traveling any further. “Eat whatever you want, as much as you want. There's plenty, we'll have leftovers as it is.”

 

Something in his face or tone must have gotten the message across, because James loaded up his paper plate with as much pizza and fried rice as it could hold without folding under the weight. They sat cross-legged on the bed closest to the balcony and shoveled food in their mouths like starving men, though Shawn suspected it was much more literal for James. He went back to the kitchen and got drinks and the last half of a box of meat lovers since he had a feeling James wasn't going to ask for anything.

 

At some point Mario Kart was switched to some kind of first person shooter game, James didn't know which because he was terrible at them. The perspective always made him misjudge distances, having played too many to third person fantasy role play games. He was about to ask if James wanted to play when he noticed the sudden tension in the body next to him. At the sound of onscreen machine gun fire James went rock still, didn't even breath. An explosion went off and his eyes went wide and his gloved hand cured into a fist.

 

Before James could have some kind of flashback or start screaming and trying to kill the terrorists that were holding him prisoner in a hotel room, Shawn grabbed him by the jacket sleeve and pulled him out onto the balcony. Luckily no one was out there smoking. More lucky, James didn't reflexively try to strangle him. He looked a little better with some fresh air, away from the people and the game. The sounds in the room were muffled by the glass door.

 

“James, are you okay? Do you know where you are?” Shawn said softly.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay, that's...good.” Shawn wasn't a counselor, he didn't know what he was doing. The only things he knew about PSTD he learned on the internet and he had no experience dealing with maladjusted war veterans. “Do you want to leave the party? I know it's a lot of people in a small space. A lot of noise. We can take some of the food back to my room. We can hang out there, listen to some music. Or if you just want to leave I can get you a cab, I'll pay—”

 

“Your room.”

 

“Alright, lemme tell Derrick I'm leaving early tonight. Just chill out here for a minute.”

 

Inside Derrick was getting a water bottle out of the fridge when Shawn cornered him.

 

“You got a second?”

 

“Sure.” Derrick kicked the fridge close and leaned back against it. “What's up? How are things with lover boy?”

 

“His name is James. He's nice, but...” He grimaced. _'No delicate way to put it, best to just say it.'_ “Derrick, there is something seriously fucked up in his head. The way he reacts to things, I'm pretty sure he's a homeless war vet.”

 

Derrick whistled. “Damn. You know how to pick them.”

 

“Technically _you_ picked him. I feed him all the pizza and fried rice he could stomach. I'm about to take him back to our room, get him away from all the noise,” he nodded to the TV, “and let him take a shower, so keep Alex out of there for a while.”

 

“Keep Alex out of what?” As if she had sensed a disturbance in the Force, Alex appeared with Brian in tow. They were both a little tipsy and leaning on each other.

 

“Shawn's kicking you out of y'all's room so he can give his homeless one night stand a sponge bath,” said Derrick and grunted when Shawn elbowed him in the ribs.

 

Brain raised an eyebrow. “Sounds fun if you're into that kinda thing...?”

 

“Homeless?” Trust Alex to catch the important part of that sentence.

 

“He's a war vet,” Shawn explained. “Probably his brain is too scrambled to keep a down a job, must not have any family to fall back on.”

 

Alex nudged Brian. “We should bring him along.”

 

He frowned, and even sober no one could follow Alex's leaps in logic, much less Brian who was more blessed with rock star charisma and good looks like the impossible assbaby of Sid Vicious and Jello Biafra than brains. “What, like Tiffany?”

 

She rolled her eyes. “Tiffany's a fucking camp follower. I mean as a roadie. Kicker's out since he broke his arm and we've been short ever since.”

 

“Alex we can't just pick up stray roadies. They're not abandoned kittens.”

 

“But he's homeless!” She looked at the three of them with big blue eyes and a pouty lower lip pierced with a snakebite. “We can't just kick him back out on the streets, especially in this weather. He'll get pneumonia and die or get stabbed in a hobo fight!”

 

Privately Shawn though James was more likely to be the one doing the stabbing, but he didn't think saying that would help James' case any.

 

“We don't know anything about him,” said Derrick as the voice of reason. “He could be a heroin addict or an axe murder. Or a heroin addicted axe murdered who will kill us in our sleep for drug money.”

 

“You never know what Jesus is going to look like when he comes back,” said Shawn, who knew Derrick's mama was a good Christian woman with a perpetual pot of gumbo on the stove for whatever poor soul wondered her way, from hurricane victims to skinny hungry punks. More so than the fear of God, she'd instilled in her son a fear of disappointing _her_.

 

Derrick groaned. “Shawn you asshole, you're Buddhist, you can't pull that 'what would Jesus do' guilt trip on me.”

 

“ _My point,_ ” Alex said loudly, “is that we need an extra set of hands and he needs a roof over his head, so why not do each other a favor? Sometimes people just need a chance. You're with me on this, Shawn, right?”

 

Shawn nodded. “My mom's cousin was a Vietnam vet and it screwed him up big time. When he got older he had a lot of health problems and nearly ended up homeless from medical bills. My mom helped him get assistance from the VA, but I can tell you right now it was like jumping through hoops of flaming bullshit. If Mom hadn't stood up for him he probably would have been dead on the streets. I don't think James is going to murder us in our sleep and I'm pretty sure he's not an addict. Sometimes people just fall through the cracks of the system.”

 

Brian sighed and rubbed his temples. “Fine. I'll talk to Rob, give him some sob story about James being your old high school buddy who just got back from Iraq or whatever. _If_ he wants the job, we'll offer him a trial run, see how he does in Baltimore and Philly. We can't risk messing up this tour just to help some stranger, so if he gets weird we leave leave him there, okay? He's homeless, at worst he'll still be homeless in a different city. _Uhf!_ ” he grunted when Alex hugged him hard enough to nearly knock them both of their feet.

 

Leaning over the top of Alex's mohawk, Shawn gave him a loud, smacking kiss on the check. “Thanks Brian. You're doing a good thing.

 

“Don't thank me, I'm already regretting this.”

 

There was a lull in the action on the TV, so Shawn darted back to the balcony and led James out the door before the next game map loaded. The hotel hallway was almost too quiet compared to the party, but James looked better, calmer. He followed Shawn as docilely as a lamb back to Shawn and Alex's shared room. While Shawn looked for extra clean clothes, James stood motionless by the door, looking lost.

 

“Go ahead and hop in the shower, I'll bring you some clothes in a minute.”

 

James didn't move towards the bathroom. “Do you have anything long sleeved?”

 

“Y-yeah.” Shawn's voice hitched a little, but gave a smile to cover it.

 

As the bathroom door clicked shut behind him, Shawn stopped rifling though his duffle to hold his head in his hands. He wasn't sure which possibility was worse: that James had been homeless long enough to learn to always wear as many layers as possible, or the other, more common reason people in the scene wore long sleeves. He had his own scars on his stomach and thighs courtesy of the horrible black period after his dad left.

 

Some digging turned up an old pair of sweat pants and an Anti-Flag hoodie he'd bought too big when they sold out of his size. It was soft, faded cotton and one of the most comfortable things he own, which is why it had often been borrowed by past girlfriends and boyfriends. This wasn't how he would have imagined James wearing it.

 

Flopping face first onto the bed, he let the sound of the shower send him into a mediative, half awake state. His body ached from beating drums, his belly was full, and the adrenaline rush from James' near freakout had faded, leaving him physically exhausted. Mentally he was wide wake. Unanswered questions and what-ifs kept his mind racing, all of them revolving around their newest roadie, but he was getting ahead of himself. He hadn't even mentioned the job offer to James yet and he might say no, homeless or not. Even when a man has nothing he has his pride.

 

Face smothered in his pillow, he listened to the shower run for forty-five minutes. No surprise that James wanted a long shower, who knows when he last had unlimited hot water? Maybe he was jerking off, and the thought sent a little curl of warmth down Shawn's belly as he pictured James, naked and wet with his hand wrapped around his dick. If so he was taking his sweet time, and in his head James' hand slowed to a teasing, lingering pace. But what dude took that long to jerk off, and Shawn's imagination took a more worrisome turn. James was a war veteran. What if he'd been water boarded and right now he was curled up in the bottom of the tub, foaming at the mouth, trapped in a flashback? It was pretty unlikely, but just plausible enough that Shawn was swinging his legs over the bed to go check on him when James came out of the bathroom and he realized the water had already shut off.

 

James' hair looked longer wet and and his sallow skin had a healthy flush from the hot water. The hoodie fit him better in the shoulders and arms than it did on Shawn, which was impressive since Shawn's arms were the most muscled part of him, being a drummer. Under the unflattering sweatpants the rest of him looked equally solid, the way dudes got from kicking ass and carrying boats or whatever the fuck Navy Seals did, not body building in a gym. Belatedly it occurred to Shawn that he was alone in a hotel room with a crazy man who could probably kill him with the complimentary q-tips in the bathroom, but too late now.

 

“Ready for bed? I don't know about you, but I'm pretty beat. You can stay up longer if you want, watch TV, read a magazine or whatever, the light doesn't bother me.” He made a show of pulling back the starchy sheets and setting the alarm on his phone, but when he turned around James was still standing there looking at the bed.

 

“Do you need anything first? I got a couple water bottles in my bag, grab one for the nightstand in case you get thirsty.”

 

Implied or not, direct orders seemed to go over better, but Shawn was reluctant to boss a grown man around. James set the bottle on the nightstand and laid on the bed without bothering to get under the covers, curled on his side to keep Shawn and the door in his line of sight. Creepy.

 

“So...” Shawn said a bit too loud in the silence of the room and winced.“Uh. One of our roadies recently broke his arm and we're down a set of hands. You looks like you could use a job. All you'd have to do is travel with us, help load and set up equipment, and do some heavy lifting or odd job here and there. Nothing too complicated, I promise, and we'll show you whatever you need to know. You don't need to answer right this second—”

 

“Where will I stay?”

 

“Hotel rooms, with us and the rest of the crew. You'll ride with the roadies to and from gigs. It's an under the table job, so no insurance if you drop an amp on your foot, but you'll get paid in cash.”

 

“What time do we leave in the morning?”

 

“Check out's at noon so we gotta be out the door by then. Do you need to get any belongings before we leave town? Marcos has a car, we can swing by—”

 

“No.”

 

Short of ending the night by actually hitting on James like he originally intended, there really was no way the night could get more awkward. “Oookay. More sleep for us then.” He turned off the lamp and the room was thrown into blackness, the city lights completely blocked by the heavy hotel curtains.

 

The hum of the air conditioning unit was a pleasant white noise and even with the stranger in his room Shawn found himself drifting off. His last thought before finding sleep was to hope James didn't sleepwalk.

 


	2. James

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldier's new assignment is much more pleasant than his old missions.

Shawn was his new handler.

A civilian with no training of any kind, who did not know the correct procedures or words to control the asset, or even how to perform maintenance on the Weapon.

But he provided a uniform (soft, comfortable clothes that offered little protection except from the weather), equipment (personal hygiene products and a duffle bag for storage), shelter (rooms with no surveillance and flimsy locks), and most important of all: orders.

“James, start unloading the bus, Chris will help you once he parks.”

“You got a minute? Grab that end so we can get this upstairs onto the stage.”

“Maybe a little more to the left? Yeah, perfect!”

“Go grab yourself a drink. Don't worry about paying, we got a tab.”

“You can bring the leftovers if you want, we have a minifridge in our room.”

“Great show tonight, huh? Get some sleep, we gotta get up early tomorrow.”

And he was never once punished, only corrected when he did not complete a task to satisfaction.

James, as he had _chosen_ to call himself because one of the first things he learned after Hydra was the importance of names that were not code names or call signs, decided he liked Shawn.

Liking things was a new concept, too. The asset had never been allowed preferences beyond which weapon to use when multiple were available for a mission. Other preferences were inconsequential, and as such no one would have listened even if he had bothered to voice them, so he didn't. Opinions were something James was allowed to have. With this newfound freedom, the asset decided he liked being James, though his new life was confusing and complicated.

There were an astonishing number of tiny decisions people had to make everyday, he discovered, so many it could be overwhelming. James looked to his new teammates (correction: co-workers, civilians didn't have teammates or units) for guidance, deciding it was safest to mimic the behavior of others around him. It was technique used in undercover work, though that was not a skill set the Winter Soldier had been trained for in detail. That was reserved for operatives like the Widows, who had the surgical precision of a scalpel; the asset was a bayonet.

In his new assignment as roadie, James was less of a weapon, or even a tool, and more a beast of burden. Lifting amplifiers was easy with his enhanced strength, making him faster and more efficient than roadies for other bands. Main objective completed, James had time to learn new skills.

Four stops in since joining the Punk You Buddy tour and two stops since officially starting his under the table job (there were no real tables involves), he learned how to create and dismantle the web of electrical cables that connected instruments and microphones to soundboards and amplifiers. Once he mastered how to hook-up the pick-ups, a secondary handler (correction: Derrick) taught him how to tune a guitar, though the first attempt had resulted in a cacophony like two steam trains having sex when the Weapon touched electrified steel strings. Ears ringing, Derrick had informed him the sound was awesome with lots of raw distortion, though James wasn't sure what that meant. After that he'd taken to wearing the rubberized work glove he used for electrical work while tuning guitars.

Pre-show tune ups also revealed a more useful talent that making ungodly loud noises. According to Derrick James had something called perfect pitch, which meant he never had to use the electric tuner to know when a string was too flat or too sharp. Recognizing each note was instinctive, as second nature as lining up the sights of a rifle, though until he started studying Derrick's guitar tabs he hadn't known the letters for the sounds. Now the key of A was practically tinnitus ringing in his ears, stuck in his head like a catchy tune whenever he picked up a guitar.

More than the guitar, James liked the piano. Everyone called it a synthesizer and it didn't look like a piano was supposed to (or what he thought one was supposed to look like), but it still had eighty-eight keys. Unlike the guitars it didn't make a sound until plugged in, but once on it had a range of voices than fascinated James. Press one button and it sounded like a normal piano, hammers and all, but there was a whole range of foreign instruments that sounded like they were recorded in a steel mill.

One night not long after learning how to tune the guitars, James was about to unplug the synthesizer when he tapped a key curiously. Then another, and another, and he smoothly transitioned into a set of scales, a major chord, the first bar of a song. The artificial sound didn't linger in the air like a real piano would, but ended abruptly the moment his fingers jerked back from the keys. He stared at his right hand like it was the alien one attached to his body. Yanking out the cords from the instrument, he packed it and the folding stand and didn't let himself dwell on why he was so unsettled.

The incident was not an isolated one. A dozen missions (corrections: shows) went by with James finding reasons to prolong the synthesizer's soundcheck, wiggling cords and checking the pre-programmed sound samples. It couldn't be tuned like the guitars, but James could perform a practice run of the songs, learned from watching Brain play and the sheet music, once he'd learned to read it.

“I didn't know you played,” Alex said one night when he'd picked out the melody of a song he couldn't get out of his head. He didn't know where he'd heard it, but it was familiar and warm as an old coat.

 _Neither did I_ , thought James.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long ass wait, I got hella sidetracked by the new Star Wars movie, which sent me down the Star Wars Kink Meme rabbit hole. Long story short I rediscovered 9-year-old-me's crush on Ewan McGregor and had to watch Velvet Goldmine, which if you haven't seen can be summarized by this comic (not really): (http://thepunchlineismachismo.com/images/kisskissbatman.jpg) I may or may not have also gotten distracted by Batman, but Google image search "Nightwing butt" and you will understand. Boy Wonder grew up FINE.
> 
> This is the first part of a longer chapter that is still being written, but I figured I'd go ahead and post it rather than wait even longer for the completed chapter. How long? Who knows! I have no idea what I'm doing with this fic! Next up is Alex's POV and her not anticipated back story.
> 
> *Cough*whatCivilWar*cough*

**Author's Note:**

> Heh, funny story, I'm not even that into punk music? I haven't seriously listened to any since middle school, so please PLEASE tell me your favorite punk songs so I can YouTube them for inspiration. My cousin was the big punk fan with the CD collection, not me, so I'm practically starting fresh here.
> 
> This fic has a pretty bare bones outline, so feel free to suggest things you want to see happen or throw ideas at me to see what sticks. Chapter 1 was just a plot bunny that refused to go unwritten, but everything after that is sketchy.


End file.
